Page 15 of Between the Lines

She pauses the disheveled unpacking of her lunch to look up at the sea of faces, and on her third inappropriate word, her eyes land on me. Cotton candy pink coats the apples of her cheeks as the rest of her face fades to a pale white.

“Oh. Mr. Harding. I amso sorry.”

With my brows pinched, I simply nod. She isn’t a student I can write up for swearing. She’s an adult—at least, her paperwork says she is—that probably didn’t expect her superior to be joining her at the lunch table.

“So,anyway,” Aaron interrupts. “We were talking about where we went to college…”

At this, she perks up.

“Oh my God. Best four years of mylife.”

I hold in my eye roll at that statement. This girl who is easily ten years my junior is still in the phase of life where partying every weekend is a social norm. I never saw the appeal in drinking or night clubs, but Claire Benson seems just the type.

Young. Objectively attractive with her blonde, windswept hair, petite figure, and high fashion sense. I’m sure she goes out every weekend and paws off men and free liquor until bar close.

Not that I should care.

I shake out that thought. It’s this statement that hits me square in the face with the disparity at this table. I am the administrator. They are the teachers.

Regardless of my attempt to fit in, I do not belong here. I am making them uncomfortable. I shouldn’t be here.

I gather my things and tuck them into my lunch bag, then abruptly stand.

“I forgot about a meeting. I’ll leave you all to enjoy your lunch.”

“See ya, Nate! Join us anytime!”

To his defense, Aaron waves me off in genuine friendliness. But I won’t be joining them again.

My afternoon calendar is more open than I’d like, so I use it to check in on the rest of the long-term subs from my list. As I round the corner to seventh grade, my body tenses.

It’s like Claire Benson is destined to grind on every single one of my gears today.

This part of the hallway comes to a corner with a short wall and a window that overlooks the courtyard. There is a table pressed up against the wall below the window for students to have a quiet hallway space. And yet, students aren’t working at the table.Instead, Claire Benson is sitting on top of it, her legs tented, while she passes a football to Rocco Thatcher. Pop music streams from the cell phone on the table next to her. She smiles. He blushes. They pass the ball lightly back and forth. Not a book or worksheet in sight.

I straighten my tie, dip my head, and press forward.

“Ms. Benson,” I say, a little more sternly than I had anticipated, but still annoyed nonetheless.

Her cheeks pink, and her arm pauses mid-toss, knuckles whitening around the faded Patriots football.

“Sorry. Am I interrupting an impromptu football practice?”

Slowly, her feet slide from their place flat on the table, dangling there before she slinks off of it completely. I register for only a moment that she is petite enough that her feet don’t touch the ground, but shake that nugget of information away.

“Rocco and I were just taking a little break.”

She puts her arm around Rocco and hands him the football, which he cradles against his stomach tightly.

“And where is the rest of your class?”

She hitches her thumb over her shoulder.

“Inside the classroom, last I checked. Although, theycouldbe running around town by now. The lock on the window is alittleloose. I actually caught Rocco halfway out in the middle of readingThe Outsiders, which is why we had to come out here and cool off.”

Her cheerful, close-lipped smile is warm, bright, and expectant. If I weren’t so annoyed already, I may have laughed at her joke, Instead, I smash my eyebrows together to kill it.

“Do you think this is funny, Ms. Benson?”

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